


Biological Trigger

by Whreflections



Series: Bruises verse [1]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Complete, Episode: s06e12 Corazón, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, References to drug use/addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:44:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To avoid what Reid fears the most, he just might have to give up the one thing he’s realized he desperately wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Biological Trigger

Coming off the jet, Spencer squinted at the harsh morning light. The sunglasses he’d picked up a few days ago barely seemed to do shit at blocking the light, no matter how much he pushed them up and turned his head. He had to thank God for small mercies, though, because at least he’d made it off the jet without getting the third degree from anyone, though Hotch and Morgan had both tried. He’d finally feigned sleep scrunched up against the window, his breathing even for long minutes before he could feel Hotch ease up his stare.   
  
On the ground avoidance got harder every minute, and just like he’d have been willing to bet, Hotch pulled him up short just before heading into the bullpen.   
  
“Reid, if you-”  
  
“I’ve got an appointment I was hoping I’d actually be able to keep so is it alright if I wrap up the paperwork over the weekend? It really is important, I wouldn’t ask if-”  
  
“Of course, leave as soon as you need.” The agreement was only the agent in him, SSA Hotchner on constant lookout for his team. The layer of hesitation, the way his eyes shifted just a little softer, that was all Aaron, all exactly what he currently  _didn’t_  want to see.   
  
“Thanks. I’ll just-” The gesture toward his desk came out frustratingly awkward, his satchel sliding against his shoulder.   
  
“Will you be home in time for dinner?” His voice had dropped even lower, down to the range reserved for the most careful deception, as if anything said  _there_  would actually ever leave the room. Of the team, only Seaver remained in the dark(or at least, Spencer suspected she did) and she was nowhere to be seen.  Even if she'd overheard, she'd never go to Strauss. It grated at him sometimes, the discrepancy from the life they had among their friends outside these walls and the appearance they were forced to maintain within them. Still, with his head damn near splitting open, it couldn’t feel like the most pressing concern.   
  
“No, I don’t think so. Not today.” Since they’d become serious there had been 3 days home in Virginia they’d intentionally spent apart. 4, if he counted the fight they’d had three months ago, though they technically made up before the end of that one. He knew there’d be questions, could’ve predicted it down to the way Hotch only half discreetly reached for his wrist, and he pulled back before those fingers could really latch on. His head was killing him and if he hadn’t been so positive about the impossibility of it he’d have sworn his nerves were actually shuddering under his skin.  He was in no way ready for a conversation about any of it, not his head or his sudden departure.  Spencer stepped back, widening the ground between them. “Bye, Hotch.”   
  
On the way out, he half expected to be followed. In the end, he took the long way to the hospital just in case.   
  
———————-  
  
The doorbell rang at 9:34. From where it sat on the table he’d heard his personal cell cycle through five calls and eight texts, and for the first 15 seconds he contemplated pretending he wasn’t home. After all, he might not have been. He’d thought about it on his way home. There were bars he knew, places he’d been with the team and places Morgan had taken him late at night. There was Cody, a man he hadn’t seen for 14 months but who was probably still in business, probably still selling jingling vials of dilaudid out of the pockets of his cargo pants. There were places for his mood, dozens of them, and still he’d come back to a stale apartment that no longer felt like home. He’d poured whiskey over ice a good two hours ago, and as he stared into the dark he’d swirled it around until he was left with the glass he still held, watery and untasted.   
  
While he was trying to make up his mind about the door the bell buzzed again, and his long legs seemed to unfold automatically from the couch. Aaron Hotchner was many things, but he could rarely if ever be faulted for a lack of persistence.   
  
He wrenched open the door, gave Hotch plenty of room to come on in around him.   
  
“I took Jack to Jessica’s for the night.” He was every inch casual now, jeans and one of those pullovers he wore over everything at home so long as the air carried a hint of a chill, a tiny glimpse of grey t-shirt peeking over the edge. The edges were frayed, undue wear that made it look older than it was. He’d been there when Aaron bought it, at the air and space museum the day they’d taken Jack for the first date they’d had wasn't just the two of them.   
  
Spencer only nodded, preoccupied with the feel of the door chain under his fingers as he clicked it shut. Just then, the metal felt shockingly cold. Hotch’s hand flattened carefully against his spine, warm and steady, but he jerked away hard, pressing against the door in the dark. Under his shirt, his skin was crawling, heat and cold and want and fear, and before he could stop himself he rubbed his hands together as he stepped away from the door, a ward against the phantom chill.   
  
“You didn’t have to come.”   
  
“Of course I did. I’m worried. Something’s been going on with you for days-“  
  
“I’m  _fine_.” He gritted his teeth around the word, all but stalking into the kitchen. The whiskey was worthless at this point, too much water and too little kick and really, it wasn’t what he’d been craving anyway. Maybe if he put on some coffee.   
  
“-and tonight you wouldn’t come home, and that’s not like you. I know you, Spencer. I know when something’s wrong.”   
  
“I’m fine; I’m just tired.” Technically, it was partial truth. He’d been tired since the migraine hit, the throbbing seeming to steal any real rest from even the bits of sleep he managed to get. He was tired and family life was loud and bright and a dozen other justifying reasons that had nothing to do with why he’d driven back here alone.   
  
“Jack’s missed you too, you know. When I told him I was coming to take care of you he said to tell you he wanted to talk about snow leopards.”   
  
For just a moment, the pain in Spencer’s chest actually rivaled the pain in his head. They were an interesting physiological phenomenon, emotional chest pains. The body’s response to emotional stress really could be remarkable at times, like the tightening of muscles that made him feel like something was cracking against his ribs. Every week for two months now they picked a new animal, and he told Jack everything he knew. Last week was giraffes, and he’d talked about Lamarck’s early theories on neck length with Jack nestled down between the two of them in bed.   
  
Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Spencer slammed the coffee filter in and tried to cough enough to clear it.   
  
“The snow leopard, formerly Panthera uncia and now known as Uncia uncia by most scientists. They’re a staple on the endangered species list with an estimated wild population of only 4,080 to 6,590 individuals, as of 2003. However due to the prevalence of poaching in certain parts of the range, particularly in Russia, that number is constantly fluctuating.” The coffee pot shook in his hands as he filled it at the sink. “Tell him for me.”   
  
From the corner of his eye he could see Hotch lean against the counter next to him, body language clear even in the dark. Worry drove him close, but the memory of Spencer’s recent reaction to his touch gave him just enough hesitation to hang back a bit, arms crossed against his chest to keep himself from reaching out.   
  
“I won’t remember it all, and you know he’d rather wait and hear it from you anyway.” A few inches closer, and he could almost feel Aaron’s warmth. “It’s not just me he misses when we leave now; you know that, Spencer. He loves you, and-”  
  
“Well maybe that’s not so much of a good thing.” Saying it actually hurt, a sharp twisting pain that drew a sound just short of a gasp. He couldn’t look up, couldn’t look back to see the way Hotch had to be watching him now, wary and wounded. “I’m not a parent, Hotch, I’m, I’m me. For the most part it’s so obvious I frighten children; I’m not stable, I’m not -”  
  
Hesitation broken by a deeper fear, Hotch’s fingers snagged just a little too hard above his wrist, pulling him up short.   
  
“You want to tell me what the hell is going on with you? Or do you really expect me to believe this is about some sudden fear of being a father?”   
  
Spencer dug the heel of his free hand into his eyes, bit his tongue against the whimper that tried to accompany the explosion of pain. The only light on in the kitchen was a dim bulb over the stove and still he could feel it boring into his brain. Everything hurt, his head and his chest and his eyes and the fact that Hotch should’ve been yelling, should’ve been lashing out instead of reaching. He fumbled around his words, the pain distracting.   
  
“I told you, I’m tired, I’m tired but it’s still true that I’m not good for this, Aaron. I’m not; I know.”   
  
There, Aaron should let go. It wasn’t just about them, this relationship, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t just be about the two of them, not when Jack was always an inextricable piece. It wasn’t him and Aaron, it was him and Aaron and fatherhood, the three of them and the way he’d had trouble speaking the first time Jack wrapped his arms around Spencer’s leg and introduced him to a friend as “my doctor”. They’d watched Doctor Who together on the couch, nothing too scary, and when Jack had thought that must be the kind of doctor was and he’d told him no, Jack had proclaimed him his, his doctor, maybe not an alien but an anomaly all his own.   
  
Spencer's eyes squeezed shut against the harsh twinge of pain, a mix of the migraine assaulting his eyes and the tears he couldn’t afford to shed. He had to make this clean, clean as it could be, cleaner than he’d be able to if he broke down right then. The arm Aaron still held betrayed him, started to shake. When Aaron let go to move that touch to his shoulder, his whole body trembled with the aftershocks.   
  
“Spencer, look at me.” No blame, little anger, just familiar soft command wrapped in a layer of kindness. With the tremors he couldn’t control he honestly had little hope to hide, but still he shook his head. “ _Spencer_.”   
  
“Please don’t.” He barely heard his own whisper, a little lost in sliding, desperate hope. For everyone’s sake he needed this to work, needed Aaron to go and leave him the hell alone but he was in too much pain to collect his thoughts. Honestly, he wasn’t entirely certain his abilities wouldn’t have failed him here anyway, his body’s emotional response rising and sabotaging his far more logical plans.   
  
“I don’t believe you. You know why?” Finally, he was done taking Spencer’s refusal to face him. He used his grip to turn them both, used his own body to pin Spencer back against the counter, trapping him between Hotch’s arms. For all that, he couldn’t make him open his eyes. “How long since you moved in with us?”   
  
“Technically I-”  
  
“No technicalities; I just want the truth. How long?”   
  
“Four months, two weeks and three or four days, depending on interpretation.” In his mind, nothing was ever just a whir of numbers. The rest came too, like the morning he’d tried to get up to go home and Aaron had pinned him, lips against his collarbone as he murmured “I wish you’d stay.”. In that instant, any desire he’d ever had to leave had left him.   
  
“Right. And that whole time, it’s not just me you’ve been living with. I see you with him every day, I see the way you look at him, and you can’t stand here now and tell me you don’t-“  
  
“I never said I didn’t love him, I said-“  
  
“Actually, that’s not what I was going to say.”   
  
 _Hell._  No matter what he told himself, he just kept showing his hand. The silence stretched, and he could feel himself being studied. Aaron was taking it all in slower, his eyes closed with a tighter squeeze than they strictly needed to be, the even more rumpled shirt, the sunglasses hanging from his pocket, a dozen other details and tidbits. He didn’t even have the energy to try and relax.   
  
Aaron’s palm against his cheek startled him, and though he sucked in a sharp breath of surprise, he instinctively turned into the touch. He hurt too much and it was too familiar, those calloused fingers on his face associated in his mind only with tenderness.   
  
“Are you using again?”   
  
It stung more than it had any right to, considering just a few hours before it had absolutely been on his mind. He managed to bite back the words that leapt hungry to his throat, the furious assertion that over his dead  _body_  would he take drugs into a home he shared with his little boy. There were fallacies, too many. He had no right to be righteous when he’d spent half the day thinking about the slide of needle under skin and Jack, Jack wasn’t his, no matter what he wanted.   
  
Instead, he settled for what should’ve been slight sarcasm. “Not yet.” He didn’t mean for his voice to crack, didn’t mean to make it a question.   
  
“What do you mean ‘Not  _yet_ ’?” There it was, finally, a hint of real anger, simmering just under the words. Still, he was smart enough to connect the dots. It wasn’t the anger he deserved, not for all the right reasons but all the wrong ones, all Aaron as protector, itching to keep him safe from himself like he hadn’t done before when Gideon told him it’d be alright and he left Spencer and went home to Haley’s bed.   
  
“I mean that as of today I’m still clean, but-“  
  
Aaron’s hand slammed down on the counter, rattling the spoon next to the sugar and startling Spencer enough with the sudden stab of accompanying pain that his eyes shot agonizingly open. He was too close, close enough to see right into those deep brown eyes he studied a little too much, too close to the pain and fear and love, God, the way Aaron  _looked_  at him. Always, it took his breath away.   
  
“I need you to tell me the truth.”   
  
“I did; I didn’t go for the dilaudid, I came back here. I thought maybe some coffee-“  
  
“No, I want the rest of it. I want to know why with no explanation you suddenly pull yourself as far away from me as you can get after you’ve conveniently pretended to be in pain to end a confrontation,  _after_  spending the past two days quieter than I’ve seen you be in seven years.” His hands framed Spencer’s face, thumbs stroking at his eyelids and coaxing them to close. “A migraine’s one thing; responding to it like this is something else. Let me help you.”   
  
He couldn’t, he couldn’t help with this, shouldn’t even try. At this point, though, exhausted and feeling raw and ripped open everywhere Aaron touched his skin, the truth just might be the only answer he had.   
  
He took a deep breath, a last ditch effort at kicking the tremor.   
  
“How much do you know about migraines as symptoms?” 

The slight rise in Hotch’s eyebrows didn’t give too much away. “I know they’re often brought on by severe stress. In some cases they can be a symptom of a brain tumor, although in general they’re not the only symptom for that condition.”   
  
“All true, but not as relevant as the fact that experiencing sudden migraines is a key symptom of the onset of schizophrenia.” His words tumbled out all over each other, a breathless jumble and still it didn’t make the saying of it out loud any less terrifying. His pulse raced, hard enough that if Hotch slid his hands a little farther down he’d have felt it against his fingers.   
  
Nothing in Hotch’s eyes looked surprised and really, why should he? He was a profiler. He might not know as much as Spencer did about schizophrenia but he certainly knew more than enough for this.   
  
When he spoke it was soft and measured, not too far from the pitch reserved for frightened victims and delusional unsubs. “With the stress our work involves, migraines aren’t surprising. There are still times you don’t sleep well and combined with the long hours we work and the things we see, stress related migraines-“  
  
“Might seem the most likely,  _if_  I was older or younger and my mother wasn’t a known paranoid schizophrenic.” He took a deep breath, fuel to try and spit the rest out. “I’m distracted, Hotch. I find it hard to keep myself focused and you’re right that I’m not sleeping well and I had an appointment with a neurologist today and he confirmed that there is no physical source for these headaches. He said they’re psychosomatic.”   
  
When he was a teenager, he’d been sure this day would never come. He could remember it so well still, his sixteen year old self sprawled on his bedroom floor with his genetics book propped up against his shoes as he read.  _If_  he carried the gene, it still wouldn’t matter. He’d save her in plenty of time to save himself.   
  
“Based on the word of the first and only doctor you’ve seen for this- who didn't diagnose you with anything other than psychosomatic migraines- you’re going to diagnose yourself with schizophrenia?” Worse than the outward cool of the words was the question under it, the current of hurt he’d felt in the way Hotch’s fingers tightened when he’d mentioned the doctor. Months ago, with the ache in his knee soothing under Hotch’s knowing fingers, they’d promised that next time, next time neither of them would be in the ER alone. Technically, he hadn’t broken his word.   
  
Agitated, Spencer pulled away so he could pace, could let himself think away from the distraction of Hotch’s touch. Hotch fought it just enough to prove he wasn’t letting go of his own free will, but just like always his grip loosened to let him pull away. In even that Reid's mind betrayed him, his damned curse of forever making connections pushing memories to the front of his mind. They were making love, Aaron’s left hand snaking around both his wrists to hold on tight right up until the moment saw the flash of fear in Spencer’s eyes. It stopped him cold, and he drew his hand away like he’d been scalded, though almost as quick it was wrapping around the back of his head to hold him close.   
  
 _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just, Raphael-  
  
Don’t apologize to me for this. _ Broken and rough, almost harsh but then-  _I’m sorry, Spencer; I wasn’t thinking._ Since, he’d held him a hundred ways but he’d never fully restrained him, just like  _he’d_  never settled himself across Aaron’s hips as they lay in bed, never given him reason to see Foyet and the glint of the knife and remember how it felt to almost bleed out in a place he should’ve been safe.   
  
The memories themselves were their own kind of rush, fierce and intense and for that, Spencer wanted nothing more than to grab the nearest object and put it through the kitchen window. They  _fit_ , him and Aaron and Jack; they fit so well it hurt and the thought of having actually had it all and facing down this…  
  
If the disorder didn't institutionalize him(and if he had it, odds are were that it would, in the end), the loss would finish him off, no doubt.   
  
“I’m not saying I didn’t want-or that I  _don’t_  want-” Spencer scrubbed his fingers though his hair hard, swallowed around a tongue that tasted like lead. “But I just, I can’t. I can’t do this anymore, Aaron. When I look at myself and I look at the odds, it seems increasingly likely these headaches are just symptoms of my early stages as a schizophrenic. If it’s going to happen…”  
  
If it was going to happen, if he was going to make it through this conversation the way he needed to, he honestly hoped it took his memory right along with it as soon as possible. All alone in some Godforsaken hospital, he didn’t need to spend his days remembering what all this had felt like, love and family and the way he’d never felt more at home in his life than he had just weeks ago. Hotch’s arm had been slung easily over his shoulders on Rossi’s couch, the room full of everyone in the world they trusted. No, no if he had no choice but to leave, that wasn’t something he wanted to remember.   
  
“I may not have a choice in what happens to me, but I won’t put that on anyone else. I can’t do that to you, Aaron, and I won’t-” God _damn_  his voice, all the cracks and shudders it never let him hide. “I know what it’s like to grow up with a parent like that, and I won’t do that to Jack; I just won’t.”   
  
Standing across from him, he could see it so well, Aaron’s transition from worried lover to unreadable mask. Everything about him shifted, from his frame all the way to those eyes Spencer loved so well. Like that, even Spencer had a hard time squinting through the cracks in the wall for the glimpses of Aaron Hotchner behind it.   
  
“So this is your backup plan. Your mother worked right through her diagnosis, fought for her life and everything she loved for as long as she possibly could. You decide to do the exact opposite; you hear a hint of a possible diagnosis more based on fear than actual probability and symptoms and you decide to give it all up, the job you love, the people you love, just on the chance that you might forget them.”   
  
There was something maddening about the matter of fact tone of it, the way it rolled off his tongue just like any other profile. His only tell was the tiniest flicker of pain as he held Spencer’s gaze, and even then it was gone as soon as Spencer blinked. Every time, Spencer was always the blinker.   
  
“It’s not like that; it’s not about me it’s-”  
  
“Isn’t it? You made the decision alone, you consider only your personal opinion, and beyond that, you pick a road undeniably similar to the one chosen by your own father.”   
  
As a scholar, he had always considered the phrase “the words hit like a punch” to be unrealistically dramatic. In that moment, though, he could properly understand. It knocked the wind out of him, throat clenching around silence before he unglued it enough to mutter what he felt like yelling.   
  
“Fuck you. You don’t-” Know how he felt about his father? No, that wasn’t quite right. “You have no right to-“  
  
“I have every right!” After so long of Hotch clearly reigning it in, it almost felt good to be yelled at. Good but for the pounding in his head, at any rate. “And before you say it, I’ll give you another answer: I’ll stop profiling you when you tell me the whole truth. You tell  _yourself_  the truth. You make yourself look at what this is really about, and you accept the fact that no matter what happened before, I’m not your father, and I'm not Jason.”   
  
Even if Spencer had been able to properly scrape up something other than an instinctive denial to say to that, he didn’t get the time.   
  
“I actually thought I’d managed to get this through to you already, but I’m not going anywhere. He walked out on you, and I know Gideon walked out after you’d already decided he was safe-“  
  
Even now, years past it, sometimes Gideon’s name still had the power to make flinch. He mostly hid it in his motion, arms coming up to wrap protectively over his chest, fingers twitching against his arms.   
  
“-but that’s not what I’m going to do, because you’re worth- I need you to listen to me.”   
  
He was listening, really, even if he was also squeezing the life out of his arms and studying the floor. Hotch’s hands on his shoulders were warm, almost too hot even through the fabric of his shirt but he didn’t pull away.   
  
“I love you, Spencer.” No matter how many times he said it, from the first till now, it had an undeniable ring of truth.   
  
“Even though love is often traditionally seen as an evolutionary advantage due to the protective instincts over mates and offspring it inspires, occasionally it's detrimental, dangerous even, it-“  
  
The light shake of his shoulders rattled Spencer’s words to a stop.   
  
“You saw me at my worst. God knows I deserved it, but you never gave up on me.”   
  
“No, you didn’t.” He hadn’t meant to answer, but he couldn’t let that one go. Aaron might blame himself for the wreck he’d been after Foyet flayed his whole life open, but that was no ones fault but the Reaper’s. As long as he lived, he’d do everything he could to remind him of that.   
  
“Tell me, did you ever think about walking away?”   
  
Not even once; walking away wasn’t what he did, just something he’d gotten good at watching others do. There’d been a time he’d feared Aaron wouldn’t let him in close enough to help him heal, but he’d never once entertained the thought of giving up.   
  
“That was diff-“  
  
“And if you didn’t run from that, what makes you think I’d run from this? From a possibility that’s honestly only unfounded speculation?”   
  
“It’s  _different_ , whether you choose to believe that or not. Of course I stayed with you, but you were, you were a mess, but you still knew me, you knew me and you trusted me and if this happens, you’ll be lucky if you get a few days a week I even know who the hell you are, much less trust you.”   
  
“Then your refusal to trust me now is good practice.”   
  
It hurt just enough to stall him, like salt rubbed into all the raw cracks and crevices of his pains. He trusted this man more than he trusted any other, just like he had with a gun to his head and Hotch’s name falling disturbingly easy from his lips. Spencer crossed his arms tighter across his chest, just tight enough to hurt.   
  
“This has nothing to do with how much I trust you!”   
  
“It’s got everything to do with it. Because if you trust me, Spencer…” Hotch’s fingers found his, rough and warm skin tangling with his own, lanky and cold. “If you trust me, then when I say we face this thing together  _if_  it happens, you’ll believe that no matter what your father did, no matter what everything else you know tells you I’ll probably do, I’ve made my choice. I chose you.”   
  
It was always hard, loving a profiler. Harder, really, than it was to be one. Worst, perhaps, was both. He knew exactly how Hotch did it, knew everything he saw and picked apart to find the roots Spencer kept diligently burying in his own mind. He was so young, so young and so worried and so afraid, and he’d watched his father walk away from his mother’s pain without even a last “I love you, Spencer” that he could pretend might theoretically have been true. It remained a cold weight inside him, something that had shifted and melded over the years until it seemed to become a mathematical constant. He wasn't worth trouble, not a little and certainly not a lot, and yet Hotch was standing there holding him like he could wait forever.  He knew all Spencer’s dark sides, knew the dilaudid and his moods and his fears and the twitch Reid could feel under his skin just then wasn't the urge for his drug of choice, but rather an urge to let himself be wrapped up by this one stabilizing force and never, ever let go.   
  
He swallowed hard, wished suddenly that he’d drunk the whiskey when he’d had he chance. “Jack-” It was his last good card, the most solid one he held all along and still, it came out wrecked.   
  
“Loves you, no matter what. You’re part of his life now, and whatever you may fear, you’re good at it. I know you love your mother, and I’ve listened to you tell me plenty of good memories. I know it was hard, what you went through, and you’re right that it was no life for a child but Spencer if it comes to that for you, we’ll be together. It’s nothing like it was for you. He won’t be alone…and I won’t let you be, unless you can honestly tell me it’s what you want.” Against Spencer’s hands, Hotch’s always felt so strong, so solid. Even the squeeze of his fingers could make Spencer's breath hitch. “So tell me now, are we a family or not? That’s the only question that matters.”   
  
The only answer he should give was no. No, because no family was ever in need of a burden like he could easily become. No, because Jack should never have to think before he reached to hug him, to wonder what year it was that day or who else might be in the room. No, because  _God_ , Hotch deserved better. He’d been through more hell than most people could imagine and he deserved a life so much better than suffering for the love of an addiction prone potential schizophrenic.  _No_. No, no, no, no,  _no_ ; but finally, those tears he’d struggled with had taken advantage of his exhaustion. He couldn’t get it out, couldn’t manage anything but shuddering breaths that weren’t quite sobs and,  _dammit_ , it just made the pain in his head worse. He wouldn’t have believed yesterday that it could even get worse. Too weak to protest, he found himself folded into Hotch’s arms and held tight against his chest.   
  
With his head buried against Hotch’s neck to block the light, he breathed him in. A dozen memories fought for dominance, late nights in bed and the graveyard after Tobias and wrapped in a worn sweatshirt once at an NA meeting, the scent on his collar reminding him simultaneously of his three biggest reasons to stay clean: the man he loved, the boy he loved, and the job and family he loved. It was fascinating really, the brains response to scent. No other sense was so primal, so capable of instilling innate fear or comfort. Even then despite everything his body responded, shifted into the source until his arms finally unclenched to cling to Hotch instead. When that seemed to help it was only instinct to grip harder, breathe deeper.     
  
Hotch’s fingers carded through his ruffled hair, tangled there just tight enough to tuck his head in a little closer. “Talk to me.”   
  
The low rumble of his voice felt so good like this, a warm vibration against his chest, and Spencer was talking in short breaths before he was even sure he could.   
  
“We use scent so often in cognitive interviews because it’s so linked to memory, but it’s also one of the most powerful biological triggers. Wolves don’t only use it to find their mates, they’re actually soothed and comforted by the smell, even in injury or before death. A woman with difficulty conceiving can sometimes have better luck after spending time with a baby and experiencing repeated exposure to the scent. Dogs often seek out the scent of dead companions on favorite things to comfort themselves; penguins are more likely to choose a nest that smells like their mate than one bearing the scent of no penguin at all. Not to mention, many animals, mammals in particular like the scent of themselves on their mate, a likely reason we have a tendency to wear the clothes of the people we love. Cheetahs-” He caught his breath, willed himself to stop. Here, alone, more often than not Hotch would let him ramble until he ran out of steam. He’d  _listen_ , and when Spencer finally stopped he’d actually have something ready a little relevant to say, with plenty of warm amusement in his eyes.   
  
Even though he’d stopped, getting himself to the point didn’t feel any easier.   
  
 _You smell like home. You smell like home, like mine, and I’m scared, Hotch, I’m so scared because I can’t let myself have this, I can’t, I…_  
  
Hotch turned his head, lips pressing against Spencer’s neck, his jaw, all the way up to his temple. Right under them, the ache seemed, impossibly, to lessen. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I know, your head-“  
  
“it’s alright.”   
  
“it isn’t.” Slowly, his body was giving up the tremors, melting into Hotch’s strength. “Can I take you to bed now? You need to rest.”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
Against his scalp, Hotch’s fingers gripped just a little tighter. “Yes?”   
  
Despite the clamoring of fears that were perhaps his oldest, he knew when to fold. In these arms he felt safe, the kind of safe he’d never felt anywhere else. Instinct had to count for something, didn’t it?   
  
“Yes.” 

\-----------

Spencer wasn’t fragile, not in the slightest. Hotch knew it better than almost anyone, had known it in the moment he saw Spencer face Tobias Hankel and a loaded gun only to be reminded all over again when Spencer hobbled to his apartment on crutches with an improperly medicated knee, just to see with his own eyes that Hotch was alright. Spencer had been his rock, then, and he’d seen firsthand that the man they so often called a boy was more than capable of carrying him through. He’d learned young after all, learned how to look after his mother and race forward at the speed of a prodigy while pretending outwardly that she was looking out for him.   
  
Spencer absolutely wasn’t fragile, but that had little to do with how much he looked it sometimes, thin and weary with dark circles under his eyes that only ever seemed to grow darker. He brought out every instinct Hotch had to shelter and protect, and sometimes, fragile or not, Spencer  _did_  need protecting. He had a tendency to take on too much, and while he might excel under certain kinds of pressure when it came to matters less easy to logic his way through he was just as likely to stumble as anyone else. On a team that drew some of the most battered souls he certainly wasn’t out of place, but even after years beside them he still had a hard time believing all those hands never minded reaching up to catch him. Like Morgan with overall trust, Reid needed to learn he wasn’t something that’d ever lead them to cut their losses and run.   
  
Reid certainly looked fragile then, in the door of his bedroom slouched so hard against the doorframe it seemed to be all that was holding him up. He’d taken his contacts out but he kept rubbing at hs eyes anyway, and in Hotch’s head he added a little more emphasis to ‘ocular pain’ on the running list he was keeping of Spencer’s migraine symptoms.   
  
“I um, it’s been so long since we-“  
  
“I know; I put sheets on the bed.” It had warmed him to see there weren’t any, to be honest. He had to have come over here, grabbed clothes and books and washed sheets only to leave them off because he knew he wouldn’t be coming back. It was past time they made it official, past time they bought a place with a yard for the puppy Jack wanted and a library for Spencer’s books. Maybe in a few days when things felt a little smoother, he’d bring it up. He’d already stripped doen to his t-shirt and boxers while Spencer was in the bathroom, and after tugging the blankets down far enough on Spencer’s side he crossed the room to pull Spencer away from the wall and into his arms. Reid’s fingers rested on the top button of his shirt, stilled and ineffective, and Hotch batted them away. “Here. Let me.”   
  
Undressing him in a lot of ways felt like second nature by that point, his fingertips flicking quickly over familiar buttons. Typically, he’d have barely had it starting to slide off Reid’s shoulders before his hands slipped under the thin white t-shirt beneath to touch his skin. He loved the feel of Reid’s chest under his hands, of the stutter his heartbeat would make against his palm if he bent his head to bite down on the pale skin at Spencer’s throat. For the moment, everything was different. This wasn’t about baring his skin to Aaron’s touch, was nothing more than comfort and he tried to make that clear, squeezing lightly at Spencer’s shoulders over his undershirt as the button down tumbled to the floor.   
  
When he let go to shift his attention down to Spencer’s belt, he was distracted by long fingers curving against his throat, tipping his chin. Spencer said once he’d kissed five people before Hotch, none of them for long enough to ever feel like he’d reached the full potential of the experience. Early on, he’d never felt experienced enough to be confidant, but that had certainly dropped away fairly fast.   
  
Now, he kissed with a kind of intensity that to Hotch seemed wholly Spencer, as focused and driven as it was warm and intimate. The flick of Spencer’s tongue against his lips was enough to coax him to chase it, his hands flexing against the leather of Spencer’s belt at the first taste of his mouth. They almost always restricted themselves on cases, kept all their energy and focus for the unsub and the chase, and they hadn’t shared more than a brief chaste kiss in days. The noise that rose from the back of Spencer’s throat was just soft enough to feel more whimper than moan, swallowed by Hotch’s mouth still working against his. The sharp tug of arousal the sound brought on had him itching to push forward, to pin Reid all the way against the doorframe and feel that lithe body pressed against his. All the things he absolutely wasn’t going to do, not right now when he was in too much pain for Hotch to ever feel right about it.   
  
Breathless, Aaron turned his head. “You need to rest; I know you’re tired.”   
  
“It’s alright.” Spencer’s breath warmed his skin, his lips damp against his jaw. He tried to keep his attention on his own hands, yanked the belt all the way out to shove Spencer’s pants down to the floor. Hotch tugged him forward to step out of his clothes, barefoot on the hardwood without the shoes and socks he must have taken off in the bathroom. The light in the hall was the last one on, and Aaron hooked his arm around the wall to slap the switch down, plunging them into as much darkness as Spencer’s room ever reached. While Spencer was gone and he’d been making the bed he’d realized that if Spencer had been gone long enough he’d stopped keeping his room ready, the nightlight wouldn’t be plugged in either. He’d learned long ago that even if he tried to make himself to keep from asking, Spencer couldn’t sleep comfortably without it. It clawed at something in Hotch when he thought about it, questions of whether the fear had always been that strong ever since Riley Jenkins or if the BAU had brought it on, innate fear heightened by the knowledge of exactly what kinds of things could be shielded in shadows.   
  
Before he could take another step back toward the bed Reid’s hand was on his neck again, holding on just tight enough to keep him in place as he leaned in to press a light kiss to the corner of Aaron’s lips.   
  
“Thank you.” As he whispered, his grip tightened. “For coming here, for…” Reid swallowed, his throat trying to work around the words. Hotch turned his head just enough to block him with a proper kiss, kept it slow and easy until he could feel Reid relaxing against him. He wasn’t about to let Reid thank him for  _that_. Being here for him wasn’t a chore, no matter what.   
  
“Come on. Bed.”   
  
Reid was at times both impossible and wonderful to sleep with. Asleep, he was gangly like a pup that had yet to grow into its legs, and he slept with a restlessness that had often had Hotch waking three and four times a night. Still, when he settled it was against warmth, long limbs wrapped around Hotch with his head tucked in close and honestly, even though he loved this man enough to have put up with it regardless, that made the restless nights worth it.   
  
Trying to orient himself in a bed he hadn’t used for months he shuffled around until the blankets were all sufficiently untucked, finally going nearly limp with one arm twisted back behind his head beneath his pillow. Beside him, Hotch kept just enough space to feel Reid’s body heat radiating towards him but not quite enough to actually press close. He had to keep just enough distance to remind himself now wasn’t the time to touch as much as he wanted; Spencer would sleep and he could watch and worry and maybe when he woke up in the morning he could reassure himself the way he desperately wanted to, mapping every inch of Spencer’s body under his hands.   
  
With as long as it had been since he lived alone, silence had become a rare thing. Jack was always running somewhere or laughing or kicking a soccer ball against his closet door(no matter how many times they told him not to). Spencer talked more than Haley ever had, to him and Jack and the team on the phone, to the TV, to the room at large…their apartment was never quiet. At Spencer’s old place there wasn’t even a ticking clock, nothing but the faint whir of the air conditioner and Spencer’s steady breathing. The sheets didn’t even rustle for the longest time, draped stationary over his abnormally still frame.   
  
“It’s barely half past ten.” Spencer’s voice seemed just a little louder in the dark, and a hell of it lot steadier than it had been in the kitchen. There was the slightest undercurrent of amusement there even, enough to make a smile pull at Hotch’s lips too.   
  
“You can sleep anywhere.”   
  
“On the jet earlier I-“  
  
“Weren’t actually sleeping; you might can fool Morgan but I’ve seen the real thing enough to know.”   
  
Spencer shifted closer. “People use them interchangeably, but being tired or exhausted and being sleepy actually aren’t the same thing.” Rather than answer, Hotch let his palm settle on Spencer’s chest, right over his heart. The way the beat leapt at his touch was something he’d never get used to. The hand Spencer had had under the pillow raked through his own hair, a motion that had long ago become habit to pull it away from his eyes but wasn’t really needed these days. “I wanted to go to you, the other night in Miami. I felt like hell and I-” He shook his head, licking his lips as his hand dragged absently through his hair again. “I always miss this in hotels but I kept trying to sleep in chairs at the station and wishing….in the end, I talked myself out of it,”   
  
“I wish you hadn’t.” True, but only with half conviction. It was a hard thing sometimes, being his lover and his leader. He _had_  to balance it well, he didn’t have a choice because if Strauss ever had reason to think he was in any way sheltering Reid, she’d come down on the team so hard he wouldn’t be able to protect them. Times like this, it was a choice he hated having to make. Part of him(the louder part) told him that Spencer was his priority,  _his_ , and keeping him safe had to be treated accordingly. The rest of him, the bits he had to make himself listen to, those parts knew that without Reid being exactly where he was when the case ended there was a good chance the unsub would’ve gotten away with it. They had drawn the case to a successful end only through this man’s bravery and skill. Even when it hurt him, so long as it was feasible Reid had to maintain his position on the team at all hours, just like the rest of them.   
  
Hotch rubbed his thumb lightly across Reid’s shirt, the fabric thin enough it was almost as warm as touching his skin. “You’re not sleepy then.”   
  
“Not particularly, no.”   
  
“Reid,-“   
  
“It actually is a little better, in here. The dark helps, the lack of movement, the relative quiet; I’m alright. Besides, I want…” His physical confidence might have risen, but when it came to words, no matter how much he’d dominate the conversation on any other subject, on this subject he tended to go quiet. Substituting action instead he pulled Hotch down to meet him in a kiss, moaning enticingly when Hotch couldn’t help but respond. He might could keep a little distance, but keeping his hands to himself with Reid’s tongue lightly licking its way into his mouth was another matter entirely. He’d thought more than anything Spencer needed to rest, but honestly this might be exactly what they both needed.   
  
Reid pressed against him, one long leg beginning to slip between his before Hotch pushed him back flat on his back.   
  
“You mentioned lack of movement.”   
  
He could feel the beginnings of a smile against his lips before they were kissing again, his hand cupping Spencer’s jaw to tilt his head back. With better access the kiss was just a little deeper, a little more thorough, and he moaned when Spencer responded by gripping blindly at the sleeve of his shirt. Spencer’s hip was pressed flush against him and he could feel his cock swelling at the pressure, eager to respond. His thoughts swirled, logic against want and need and instinct. He gave just a little more ground, let his hips roll forward against his lover. Spencer, always vocal, hummed his appreciation as his grip tightened.   
  
God, Hotch wanted him.   
  
“You’re sure.” It wasn’t quite a question, not really, because he had to trust Reid enough to know that he’d say if he wasn’t, that in  _this_  he would hide nothing. Still, he couldn’t help but say it.   
  
“In a 1988 study in Oklahoma, sex actually immediately stopped the migraines of twenty percent of tested women who suffered chronic headaches. A further forty percent reported improvement and really,” He rambled at close to top speed, his breath a constant soft stream against Aaron’s skin, only broken when he paused to tip his head up and suck lightly over Aaron’s pulse. He had a definite unspoken kink for Hotch’s teeth and tongue against his throat, and he was almost equally fond of returning the favor. “-it makes biochemical sense. Orgasm releases not only endorphins but additional substances aimed at euphoria and pain relief; it’s a natural method of self-medication. So if you want to help-“  
  
“Oh I’ll help.” After all, who was he to argue with science? He shifted, rolled over so he could cover Reid’s body completely with his. They fit together just right, his thigh sliding easily between Spencer’s legs. At the sudden shock of weight and heat and enticing pressure to thrust against, Reid’s hips bucked up against him. He was already hard, the long line of his cock unmistakable against Aaron’s thigh, and for a minute his plans faltered with the desire to simply take him like this. Years ago, after the divorce but before Canada, back at  _their_  beginning, he’d had Spencer drunk and writhing and pressed up against his living room wall. They’d only recently started to have sex and he’d been Spencer’s first and all of it was heady and new and he melted oh so easily under Hotch’s hands. When he came right there, head knocked back against the wall as he rode the thigh pressed hard between his slim hips, Hotch had been filled with a rush of fierce possession. This beautiful man had somehow chosen him, let him and only him take him apart and see him like this, open and brilliant and breathtaking. There was nothing like what Spencer did to him, not in all the world. Hotch nuzzled against his ear, one hand reaching back to catch Spencer’s as he reached for the hem of Hotch’s shirt.   
  
“Shh. Be still. Just let me take care of you.”   
  
He gave in with only a token sigh of protest, pacified by Hotch’s kiss and the slide of his hands under Spencer’s shirt. Hotch pushed it up past his ribs and left it there for long enough to sit up and take off his own shirt first, tossing it absently back over his head. At home everything needed to be easy to find, within close enough reach of the bed that they could pull at least boxers back on before falling asleep. Jack was learning a lot of things, but he still hadn’t learned to reliably knock when he woke up absurdly early to go watch cartoons. Here, it wouldn’t matter.   
  
Once he pulled Spencer’s shirt all the way over his head he had bare skin stretched out before him, could touch and mark and soothe with his tongue. He slid down in the bed, kisses trailing from Spencer’s jaw down across his chest. He paused a little on his nipples but paid more attention to his ribs, just a little too pronounced under his skin. He traced them, teeth nipping light enough to be little more than a tease. Beneath him Spencer squirmed, whining, and he turned his head to gather skin between his teeth, sucking just hard enough to be sure he’d leave a mark. Spencer’s fingers buried in his hair, jerking a little as he struggled between the urge to pull Aaron’s mouth up to his and the urge to keep that mouth right where it was. The latter won out and Reid clutched him close, breath heavy as one hand slid down to knead encouragingly at the nape of his neck.   
  
His handiwork was hard to see in the low light but he knew it’d be easily visible the next day, like the mark he’d once left on Spencer’s neck that had drawn Morgan’s teasing faster than flies to honey. It was easy enough to lose himself in this, in the taste and the sounds and the exploration of the wonderfully familiar and ever changing body before him. Hotch had learned his scars early on but in their job something new came all the time, a disconcerting scrapbook of cases and fears, times he had at least a second if not more to fear that he could be losing Spencer for good.   
  
Tonight with all the fear that had shaken Spencer’s voice, all those old worries rested extra fresh on his mind.  Before he properly consciously decided to, he found himself reaching for Spencer’s right arm to stretch it down beside him. His kisses were more gentle there, more hesitant in their searching, and when he reached to first of the subtle track marks at the inside of his elbow he stopped altogether, lips pressed unmoving over it as he took a deep breath to steady them both.  The first time he'd touched them, Spencer had rambled, spoke of factors that likely influenced how easily a person scarred.  He only stopped when Hotch had told him it was alright, they didn't have to talk about it.  He may not know dates, exactly, but he knew that Spencer had used for a few months after Hankel and stopped, knew that he had likely briefly relapsed at least once since then.  He'd kept watch, but he'd never let himself catch too hard on the specifics, a decision he swore over and over he'd made for Spencer's sake, for the team.  The profiler in him could only point that any measure of willing blindness he chose to have protected himself, too.  

For all that, small and faint white though they might be, his attention caught on those scars likely far more often than Spencer would have wished.  Hell, Hotch had thought before of marking him there, couldn’t help but think it again, to wonder what kind of good if any it might do for him to look down and see proof of Aaron in stark relief right  _there_.  The part of him that wanted to try it was always fierce and loud, insistent that if he _were_ close to relapse, if in that moment before he slipped the needle in his vein he was reminded of just how desperately he was loved, he might change his mind. The quiet part that always won feared just how deeply it might hurt to find out that it wasn’t enough.   
  
Hotch nuzzled against the soft skin, tried not to be distracted by the clamoring fears in his head that reminded him of the way Reid had said _not yet_. Not yet, like a forgone conclusion, like when his fear got even worse than it was tonight he’d run even farther, all the way to the escape he’d tried to leave behind. In the midst of worrying about the present problems he hadn’t wanted to lose his focus, to let Reid shake him off the scent and onto something else, but it had hurt in a way that still burned his lungs with the desire to say, _why can’t you just come to me?_   Logically, he knew it wasn’t that simple. Reid  _did_  come to him when he had cravings. Sometimes he told him how he was feeling and sometimes he didn’t but Hotch could always tell, could see it in the dance of his fingers and set of his shoulders, could hear it in his words. Sometimes they talked and sometimes they played cards, sometimes they made love and sometimes Hotch fucked him until he was too limp to twitch. Once, they’d taken Jack to play basketball and Reid had thrown the ball with more force than strictly necessary against the backboard and rambled to the two of them about physics and foul shots and the angle of entry until the tremors in his hand had stopped.   
  
Spencer did come to him, when he could. There were cravings and then there were  _cravings_  and deep down Hotch knew that, but none of that knowledge made the fact that there was a level he could do nothing about feel any better.   
  
“Aaron, you know I’d never…not with Jack in the house. I’d never bring dilaudid home.” The whisper sounded half broken but all the way certain, and Aaron almost wished he hadn’t let his worry lead him to this because he was supposed to be distracting Spencer, not making him feel worse.   
  
He didn’t answer at first, kissed his way across the constellation of dots there close to the crease until he felt the tension in Reid’s arm start to relax. “I do know that.” He was absolutely certain of it, and he had been for a long time. The people he trusted he truly  _trusted_ , and with Spencer now a parent to Jack too, he knew that the boy meant the world to him. He’d never risk being high around Jack, never risk needles and vials when he knew Jack had a habit of going through Spencer’s bag to try to find a book they were reading together. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t come here, or go somewhere I won’t find you.”  _And it frightens me._    
  
If they really started to have that conversation, to talk about dilaudid and hotel rooms and cravings, neither of them would sleep. With hard conversations, one for the night was more than enough. Hotch pulled himself away from the scars, brought his lips back to Spencer’s and their bodies back in alignment, and he kissed him with abject hunger until Reid responded with the same, cock fully hard again, nails digging into Hotch’s back to hold on as they moved together. It was transporting, immersive and perfect, and the more Reid moaned his name between kisses the more he thought about the feel of Reid’s cock on his tongue, the taste and the wet slide of it across his lips and the fact that just then, he could make Reid scream with no one to hear it.   
  
Hotch pulled his boxers down and off before Reid’s, lust pooling hot in his belly when he touched fabric damp from Reid’s leaking cock. He was close enough that it wouldn’t be long if Hotch didn’t stretch it out, and that was exactly how he wanted it. Semantics aside he knew Reid was exhausted, knew his desire here was driven more by emotion and days apart than by an honest lack of weariness. With Spencer warm and orgasm limp in his arms, he’d be out like a light.   
  
He didn’t make it halfway down Spencer’s chest before Reid stopped him, fingers twisting into a grip of the short hair at the base of his skull.   
  
“Aaron,” He panted, lips damp and swollen from his kisses. The slight tug back up was unmistakable. “Please.”   
  
It twisted at him, desire at the strung out way Reid whispered and a little bit of guilt at the way he begged before he even asked. He took only a moment to pull away and fish in the nightstand before he gathered Reid as close as he could, bodies impossible tangled. He flipped the cap open, tipped the bottle to coat his left hand before wrapping it around Spencer’s cock. Spencer’s face was already buried in his neck, and at the touch his whole body shivered.   
  
“Is this what you wanted?” Hotch whispered right up against his ear, his voice pitched low with arousal.   
  
“Fuck, your hands…” The lack of eloquence was a turn on of its own, always a sign Reid was too far gone to ramble about instinct and biology and exactly what it was about Hotch’s hand on his cock that got him so riled up.  He had, however, occasionally talked about it afterward, postulated everything from gun callouses to the left handed grip giving his body reminders of his partner's touch versus his own.  Hotch cared less about the biology of it, more about the muffled, needy sound he knew Spencer would make biting down on his lip when Hotch palmed him just a little more forcefully.  
  
He kept his face hidden against Hotch’s neck, kept breathing him in and whimpering against his throat, and when he came the grip he’d shifted to Hotch’s hip turned hard enough to bruise as he cried out. There was a certain shakiness to his hands after, not quite yet limp but not quite steady, at least not until his fingers wrapped around Hotch’s length that had been pressed against the jut of his hip. Hotch started to say _it’s alright_ because really, this was about Reid and he didnt  _have_  to have anything, but before he even finished the words Reid whispered, “Not a chance.”.   
  
Reid kissed him, wet and lingering, stretching it out until he drew back enough to say “Come for me.” because Reid knew what it did to him, because it was a question and not a command, because somehow the act of Reid asking lit fire in his veins. When he came everything narrowed down to beautifully long fingers around him and that  _voice_  and Spencer’s name on his lips.   
  
After he wiped them both down a little with boxers(his, he thought, but he wasn’t really paying attention), Spencer shuffled around in the sheets again, twisting his knee painfully once before he seemed to find just the right way to half drape over Hotch’s chest. His fingers played against Reid’s spine once he settled, counting vertebrae.   
  
“How’s the headache?”   
  
“Unfortunately I’m not among the 20%. You can’t cure me with sex.”   
  
His soft laughter shook Reid a bit on his chest, and he could feel the smile as Reid turned his head enough to kiss him somewhere in the middle.   
  
“I might be in the 40%, though. It’s not quite as bad.”   
  
“I’m glad. You might have a use for me yet.” He meant it lighthearted, teasing, but almost as soon as he said it it seemed to ring too close to everything serious, to the way he’d felt as Reid tried to tell him he wanted to face his greatest fear alone.

Reid must have caught it, the atmosphere or something in his sudden not quite shortness of breath. The fingers that had been trailing through the hair on his chest stopped, curling in on themselves. “Hotch, I didn’t want…it’s just, I know what it could mean for you and Jack and I-“  
  
“I understand.” And he did, mostly, even if it hurt. Against Spencer’s back his fingers pressed a little more firmly, a solid presence. “But I’m in this. I need you to know I mean that.” Even if it took a while, though he couldn’t help but hope he’d earned quite a bit of Spencer’s trust already.   
  
“I love you.” Usually, it made his heart jump. Just then, it seemed to make it beat more evenly, a return to equilibrium.   
  
“I love you too.” Words he’d been dying to speak since to doctor came up rose in his throat, and though he didn’t want to push it seemed his best chance. “I’d like you to see another doctor. I think we need a second opinion and-” Spencer nodded, and maybe he should quit while he was ahead but…”-I wish you’d let me come with you.”   
  
Spencer didn’t make him wait as long as he feared he might. His hand uncurled, fingers resting comfortable just over his ribs where they could feel the rise and fall. “Maybe.”   
  
 _Maybe._  For now, that was good enough. 

\-----------

  
Even when he technically  _could_  sleep in, most of the time Aaron didn't. It was a combination of work and Jack and early morning runs, but every now and then he defied his own rules. After lying awake longer than he’d counted he’d finally fallen asleep at what felt like somewhere in the early morning, and when he first woke out of habit as the sky just barely began to slant light trough the blinds he turned his head and nestled it into the crook of Reid’s neck. He was warm and comforting and Reid had a point about scent, because there was something about taking in a scent that was so wholly Reid that just made him want to hold on tighter and settle in.   
  
When he woke again at ten, he knew there’d be no going back to sleep from there. They’d shifted as they slept but Reid still held him tight and as Hotch shifted to pull away he stirred, mumbling under his breath as his hands flexed against Hotch’s skin.   
  
Smiling, Hotch leaned in to lightly kiss his still closed eyelids.   
  
“Shh. It’s alright, I’m just going to shower. Go back to sleep.”   
  
He’d shower, and in the time it took him Reid would have curled up in the warm spot he left behind and fallen back asleep. Unlike him, the kid could sleep all day if you let him(and sometimes, after a case or a TV marathon or a movie premiere or a book series, he did). With the days he’d had lately, a lot more sleep could only help.   
  
Four hours later, Hotch had showered, found Reid’s computer and done two hours of his own migraine research, made coffee, talked to Jessica and Jack, and had finally settled in on the couch with a book off Reid’s shelf. He’d never loved reading the way Reid did, though he did enjoy a book when he had the time. With time being the operative word there, he’d rarely read novels since he’d joined the BAU. He wasn’t far along when he heard shuffling in Reid’s room, and he abandoned  _Neverwhere_  to go make Reid a cup of coffee with a godawful amount of sugar. By the time he came back Reid had stolen his seat, curled against the arm of the sofa in his boxers and Hotch’s sweatshirt. It swallowed him and was short in the sleeves, but it was his and Reid was wrapped up in it and whenever he saw Reid in his clothes it reminded him all over again how beautiful and arousing it was.   
  
Leaning over him, he pressed the warm mug into Reid’s hands.   
  
“You were right, yesterday, what you said about instinct.” Over the rim of the cup Reid eyed him questioningly, and he leaned in farther to put his lips just below Reid’s ear. “I do love to see you wearing something of mine.”   
  
He could hear Reid’s smile shape his words before he saw it, drawing back to watch Reid take his first sip of coffee. “The trait  _is_  most prevalent among alpha males; not only for reassurance but as a public sign of the claim he has on his mate. Subconsciously, you know I smell like you and other males would be unable to keep from noticing it on an instinctive level as well…not that I’m going out like this; hate to disappoint you.”   
  
“Oh I’d rather keep this sight to myself anyway.” Hotch took the seat next to Reid on the couch, smiling when he tucked his feet in against the warmth of Hotch’s thigh. “Good morning.”   
  
“Good afternoon. I slept through morning and midday already.” His voice, warm and rough with sleep, lacked any irritation. Hotch tugged Spencer’s feet all the way across his lap, his hand settling to rub soothingly against his calf.   
  
“You certainly needed it. How are you feeling?”   
  
“Better. It’s still there, but the lights aren’t quite as stabby today. I think it’s on its way out.”   
  
“Good. If you mostly rest today and tomorrow, maybe that’ll be the end of it.” For now. Regardless of the reason, once migraines became chronic they tended to stay chronic. Now really wasn’t the time to dwell on that. Reaching over Spencer’s bent knees, he retrieved his own cup from the coffee table. “So other than a jar of peanut butter and a box of wild rice, you have no food. I can go pick us up something, or if you want to get dressed we could-“  
  
“Can we pick up Jack and go home?”   
  
The warmth that rushed through him all the way to the tips of his fingers was unstoppable, and he twisted enough in his seat to take Spencer’s face in his hands for a thorough kiss. He tasted like coffee, like mornings at the BAU when they actually weren’t busy and Spencer kissed him in his office behind the door. God, he loved this man beyond all explanation, beyond things like sense and the ability to even imagine what he’d have become after Foyet if he hadn’t had Spencer there to hold on tight and keep him from flying off the rails.   
  
When Hotch let him go, Reid took a sip of coffee before he’d even fully caught his breath. Just after he muttered, “Priorities.”, and Hotch laughed, in that moment happy in a way he never could’ve imagined. Sometimes, he wished Haley could see him like this. Mostly, he feared that she already did, that if she could’ve asked she’d have wondered why it wasn’t her that could light him up like this. Once, she had, but in those last years he could’ve asked her the same thing. She’d told him once, after the divorce that she’d known what was coming; she’d seen the way he looked at Spencer. In his defense, he’d pointed out that if he had, looking was all he’d ever done. She’d stepped farther, and wasn’t that worse? Sometimes, he regretted the principles that had kept his mouth shut about his feelings for Reid. If he’d told him sooner, been there for him in a more concrete way…  
  
None of those thoughts ever did any good.   
  
His hands drifted to Spencer’s knee, gentle as he worked at rubbing away any morning stiffness.   
  
“Of course we can go home. Soon as you finish your coffee.”   
  
——-  
  
“Daddy!”   
  
Every now and then, Hotch remembered that Jack was growing up, that in maybe not so many years he probably wouldn’t be daddy anymore and Jack wouldn’t be ever ready to run and throw his arms around his legs. Every time he realized that he tried to lock it all up tight, every last memory of his favorite sound.   
  
He ruffled Jack’s hair before he leaned in to kiss the top of Jack’s head, squeezing him close.   
  
“Hey, buddy. I missed you.” Every time, and he’d never miss an opportunity to tell him. His memories of his own father were nothing but a horrible and occasionally confusing jumble, and he’d thought even as a boy about the kind of father he’d be if he ever had the chance, about how he’d never let his children for a second doubt his love. He wasn’t sure yet how well he’d do long term, but he was doing his best.   
  
“I missed you too, dad.” His chin rested against Hotch’s side, his smile fading as he craned his head up. “Is Spencer still sick?”   
  
“I think he’s feeling a little better, but why don’t you go ask him?”   
  
Spencer’s quiet approach to stand against the doorjamb had been cloaked by Hotch’s entrance after Jessica told Jack he’d just come in. He’d waited, hung back to let Hotch greet Jack first even though he didn’t have to, and when Jack saw him he immediately let go to run to him. As far as favorite sounds went, hearing Jack yell Spencer’s name with that same kind of little boy enthusiasm absolutely hovered around second.   
  
Spencer went down on one knee to catch him even though that position coud never be pain free for him, and he called Jack’s name back to him with just enough exaggeration to make his little boy giggle. His arms wound around Spencer’s neck, and for a moment Spencer pulled him desperately tight, his smile flickering for a second under the weight of thoughts Hotch wished he could smooth away.   
  
“Daddy said you didn’t feel good and he had to go take care of you like when I’m sick and he stays home and mom used to make soup so I asked Aunt Jess and we made it for you.” He rambled the way only a child could, a rushed yet stilted flow that mostly came with the words muffled by Spencer’s neck until he pulled back, his eyes on Spencer’s. “It’s in the fridge. I didn’t eat any yet.”   
  
Headache notwithstanding, the past few days had clearly dragged Spencer through one hell of an emotional wringer. Between his fears about his future and theirs and the obvious pain he’d been in as he tried to push Hotch away he was an emotional raw wound, open and just on the edge of bleeding. Listening to Jack Hotch could see his throat work as he swallowed a little too hard, trying his best to even himself out.   
  
“Thank you, Jack. I’m sure it’ll help.”   
  
Fingers tightening on Spencer’s collar, Jack spoke with certainty. “Dad always says I’m supposed to come home if I’m sick.” The implication was plenty clear, and though Hotch’s fingers twitched to find Spencer’s shoulders and soothe him, he didn’t intervene.   
  
Spencer cleared his throat, absently smoothing Jack’s ruffled hair to give himself something to do with his hands. “That’s right. Over 66% of kids in school miss at least a little class every year due to illness, and it only takes one person to make it spread. More important than that, though, is the fact that when you come home and rest like your body needs to you-” Spencer cut himself off with a deep breath, his hands sliding to Jack’s shoulders. “Your dad’s right. He’s actually right a lot-” There, for just a heartbeat his eyes flicked up to find Aaron’s. “-and I should’ve come home last night. And I’m sorry I didn’t.”   
  
“Do you feel better?” With Jack, there was never any real blame. Not yet, at least.   
  
“I think so, yeah. Not all the way, but I’m alright. Hey, look what I brought us.” Reid deflected pretty masterfully sometimes. He rummaged in his bag, fished out a DVD box set that shimmered a little when light hit the cover. “Your dad said you wanted to talk about snow leopards.”   
  
Jacks nod was enthusiastic, thoroughly distracted. “I got a hundred on my science quiz! And we got stickers and mine’s a snow leopard and his tail is so cool!”   
  
“Oh their tails are _so_ cool!” Everytime he watched Spencer get into a subject like this Hotch cold hardly help but smile. At work when they had to keep his focus on the case he too often had to reign him in; away from necessity, it was nice to lean back against the wall and listen to him go. “Ok you could see how long that tail is, right? Think about when we talked about lions, it’s nothing like that is it?” Jack shook his head, eyes on Spencer with rapt attention. “That’s because while lions  _can_  climb to a certain extent they don’t prefer it and they’re not really built for it. A lion’s place is almost always on the ground, and they’re suited for it but snow leopards, they live in a world of shifting rock and high ledges and they need the weight and length of that tail as a counterbalance to keep them from losing their footing. Just as important, though, think about how you wear a scarf in the winter, when it’s really cold you pull it up over your mouth, right? They do the same thing when they curl their tail; it holds their breath and helps regulate their temperature in the worst winter conditions. And this-” Spencer tapped the box in his hand, smiling “This was the first time  _anyone_  had ever caught a snow leopard on tape.”   
  
“How is he?” Jessica’s low question distracted him from Jack’s enthusiasm, drawing his gaze back to where she stood near the kitchen. She was always nice to Spencer, but even so he had yet to decide how much he trusted her with that part of his life. He trusted her implicitly with Jack, but he feared a little, deep down, that she didn’t approve. While Haley had been good to Spencer in the aftermath, it was unlikely she’d hidden from her sister her suspicions that Spencer had been the anchor that kept Hotch tethered to the BAU. She was wrong, but that hadn’t stopped her from wholeheartedly believing it. Jessica might truly prove herself still family or she might not, but until he was certain he felt bound to shield Spencer from her a little, just in case.   
  
“He’ll be fine; it was a hard case. It’s amazing we didn’t all end up with a migraine.”   
  
On the floor Spencer and Jack were still talking, and Jack leaned in to reach for Spencer’s bag only to have Spencer stop him, gently.   
  
“You said-“  
  
“Oh there’s a new book in there, but it’s a surprise.” He scooped Jack up as he stood, grinning when Jack laughed at being swept off his feet. Spencer’s whisper was conspiratorial, soft but just enough to carry. “When I was your age, it was my favorite.”   
  
——-  
  
“Can we read the new book?”   
  
“Absolutely.”   
  
At Jack’s request Hotch had squeezed himself into Jack’s bed first so Jack could clamber on top of him and nestle against his chest, Head on Hotch’s shoulder as he looked across to where Spencer sat cross legged at the foot of the bed. There was fluid ease to his movements Hotch hadn’t seen in days as he cracked the cover and turned to the first page, stopping only to push his sleeves up almost to his elbows. Even at rest he was always careful, so careful, but one day, when Jack was old enough, he’d have to face his questions. One day.   
  
“Ready?” The question was for him more than Jack, a sign Spencer had caught onto his profiling and he shook himself a little, smiling when Jack tugged on his shirt.   
  
“Pay attention, dad.”   
  
“Sorry, sorry, I’m listening.”   
  
“You better be.” Spencer eyed him with mock warning as he smoothed the page, working to keep the smile in his eyes away from his lips.   
  
Jack giggled, Hotch shushed him, and Spencer started to read.   
  
“In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit…”


End file.
